Chapter 7: The Graveyard Shift

I returned to the crew. The next shoot was at a real mass grave—no set, just old stones and burnt incense. My skin crawled. I remembered my mother’s words: “Kabristan ki mitti pair mein mat lagana, beta.” But Guddu Bhai pushed, saying the footage would go viral. I had no choice.

Before entering, a crew member handed me a lemon and green chillies, muttering, “Tie this to your belt, Sir, just in case.” I tucked them in, feeling every old superstition come alive.

My wife messaged—Aarav’s surgery was a success. Tears soaked my kurta. She promised to light a lamp at the mandir and send prasad for the crew.

At the cemetery, lights glared, but a cold chill crept over me. Faces blurred in the shadows—some familiar, some not. The cameraman muttered about his lens fogging. My talisman burned hot at my waist, trembling with every step.

We shot a ghost fight scene. Suddenly, an actor in ghost makeup lunged, pinning me down. The grip was ice-cold, and the smell of old marigolds and damp earth filled my nose. I shoved him away, gagging at the stench. “Did makeup go this far?” I snapped. No answer—just a growl.

The director’s voice crackled: “Sir, that was just rehearsal. Now with the real actor!”

A boy in ghost makeup walked out—not the one who’d just attacked. I looked down—the earlier ‘actor’ had vanished. The crew collectively stepped back, and one makeup dada did a nazar utaaro. My knees shook. I had seen a real ghost.